


A Quiet Mind.

by BarPurple



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Drug Use, Gen, Mental Health Issues, Recreational Drug Use, Sherlock's Mind Palace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-02
Updated: 2015-09-02
Packaged: 2018-04-18 18:18:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4715882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BarPurple/pseuds/BarPurple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the barrel of a syringe there is peace of mind waiting only for the pressure of his thumb on the plunger to flow down the needle into his vein.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Quiet Mind.

In the wake of the CAM business and then getting to the bottom of Moriarty’s message from beyond, Sherlock hadn’t had much time to think. That was nonsense, of course he had been thinking non-stop about important things, but now there was the post-adventure lull and he had time to think about something else.

He settled in his armchair in 221B and held his violin on his lap. His fingers idly and aimlessly plucked at the strings as he entered his Mind Palace. He dawdled for a while in the main hall until he decided it was pointless trying to delay himself. There was no one to hide from here apart from himself and that was ridiculous. He strode on with more confidence that he was feeling to the door that held ‘that’ day. The day in St. Bart’s. The day he’d been slapped and almost found out.

He watched the memory replay as Molly told John that he was high. He watched his pathologist laid those ringing slaps on his face and raised his hand to his face, an unconscious motion that his transport repeated in 221B. Then came the moment that worried him so very much; the moment when Billy Wiggins out deduced him. That didn’t worry him at all, he was rather proud of Billy and the way he was developing his mental skills. It was in this moment that John had come so very, very close to discovering the reason for Sherlock’s drug use.

He watched the moment again and again and tried to decide if John had connected the dots. He wasn’t sure. His blogger gave every impression of believing that Sherlock turned to the needle because of boredom and some sort of self-destructive streak. 

_“Look at you! You’ve been out-deduced by a druggie!”_

Again and again he watched John say those words. Finally he turned from the room and walked along the corridors of his Mind Palace taking in the vastness and complexity of the mental construct. It was a wonder to behold; and oh how he loathed it.

These walls had allowed him some measure of security as a child in a world he often found hard to comprehend. The adult world was all the harder since he had failed to understand the lessons of the playground. In his late teens he rebelled against his own mental abilities. The Mind Palace was already huge by then and he tried so hard to ignore it and when that didn’t work he tried to destroy it. He had told John that he could delete useless information; that was a lie. He could discard pointless bits of trivia to the midden heap beyond the Palace walls, but he couldn’t dispose completely of any fact or observation. The drugs cut him off from the monstrosity he had created in his mind. The corridors became dimmed and doors refused to open. It all became more manageable and the chemical high let him not give a damn about his willing embrace of goldfishhood. 

Standing in the centre of this labyrinth he wondered, not for the first time, if Daedalus had been in awe of his creation? Had the Greek craftsman felt his design of stone and mortar to be more of a monster than the poor beast it was to imprison? Sherlock hoped so, that way there had been one human who would understand his own feelings as his gaze drifted over the towering walls and staircases.

He hated his Mind Palace, but he loved it too. During a case he was the master of this place, in total control of its dimensions, but with nothing to occupy him the sheer weight of it pressed down on him and threatened to crush him under the madness of it all. 

The needle held that at bay.

It shamed Sherlock to rely on something so mundane and addictive and toxic. It disappointed John and Molly and Lestrade. Once again he considered trying to explain to them, but shook his head and dismissed the idea before it had chance to form beyond a vague suggestion. They might understand, but he couldn’t risk them being further disappointed in him. 

Sherlock left his Mind Palace and became aware of his transport again. The first thing that he observed was John sitting opposite him reading the paper. The smile that appeared on his face was fleeting, but genuine.


End file.
